Schizotypical
by Shingeki-no-Kenzie
Summary: Modern AU in which Eren is a serial killer and Levi is his next victim. (Ereri)
1. Sour Milk

Something hot trickled down the side of my cheek, staining the tip of my index finger a delicious apple-red as I collected the substance and brought it to my lips, carefully discerning the metallic, rusted-copper flavor it offered before removing the appendage from the slimy coil of my far-too-eager tongue with an obscene popping sound. _So that's how it is._ Disgusted with the pungency I'd willfully coated across the interior of my own mouth, I spat- spraying the petrified face held mere inches from my own with fine, rose-coloured specks of blood and saliva, allowing my features to twist in something akin to fury.

"No, no, NO!" I hissed through the fine crevices of clenched teeth, tone darkening with each subsequent syllable as my grip relaxed to allow the slack figure precariously balanced upright by the collar to collapse in on itself. Dark, damp cotton slipped through my open fingers and he fell with all the grace to be expected of a corpse, broken body crumpling pitifully with no bones to hold its shape against the filthy stone of the alleyway we occupied. _This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out. _Livid, I circled the unstaunched mass of mottled flesh and clothing curled at my feet- wanting nothing more than to scream myself hoarse in a desperate attempt to release the pent-up animosity bubbling up from my gut; all soft heat and acid-kisses itching at the lining of my throat, blunted nails scrabbling against my Adam's apple, begging to be retched from parted lips. The only variable (in an otherwise tempting proposition) that kept my jaw firmly locked in place, that kept the ticked points of my teeth glued together, was the impending threat of alerting every creature within a mile's radius of my location the second my disappointment was vocalized. Wailing like a banshee with it's dick cut off certainly wasn't going to solve anything anyway.

Exhaling sharply in a futile ploy to relieve some small portion of the pressure, I ran a sticky hand through the perpetually knotted mop (occasionally referred to as "my hair"), noting with mild dissatisfaction the presence of several large clumps of matted blood that I'd need to comb out later. _Lovely. _I kicked at the heap.

What my foot connected with was not a living, breathing, sack of functional organs bundled up into a neat little pocket of skin; all hot-blooded and quick to temper. What I kicked at was unbearably cold. Limp. Dead. I wanted to cry.

"What did I ever do to deserve this?" It was incredibly needy, the high-pitched whine that had somehow managed to worm its way from the swollen confines of my throat in favour of falling on deaf ears, a spoiled manifestation of my current mental-state spilling from wicked lips before an oppurtunity to staunch the flow could present itself. Gingerly, I placed the rust-coloured palms of my hands over my eyes, minute flakes of scarlet nestled comfortably along the lines spanning their width, settling my aching body down to a half-hearted kneel beside the corpse. My poor kneecaps would surely be painted various shades of port-wine by sunrise, but superficial hindrances like bruises and scrapes had always been dead-last on the seemingly endless agenda of problems that required my tending-to; a figuratively appropriate sticky-note tacked to the back of my retinas. I was upset and made no attempt to mask it, rocking quietly on weak ankles while hot, sticky fingers searched for purchase along my scalp, pulling, pulling, _pulling_, drawing tiny wells of blood bubbling up from where fingerfuls of coffee strands had been ripped from their follicles. So many wasted days spent neck-deep, wading around that goddamn cesspool, sifting through soul after insipid soul- all for what? _This?_ I eyed the body, pulling my knees up into my chest to rest my chin atop the torn fabric, trembling hands linking themselves around my shins to keep them from peeling my scalp clean off my skull.

He couldn't have been much older than I was, limbs wilted over one another, once-sunkissed cheek drained of life and resting against the grime of the alley pavement in a graceless sprawl that, in my opinion, looked to be rather comfortable. For good measure, I rolled myself over- clothed hipbones grinding sickeningly against the concrete as I allowed the blood-spattered dip of the filthy gutter framing our choice of residence to cradle my weary head. _Definitely comfortable_. If I were to tilt my face ever so slightly to the left, my corpse and I would find ourselves nose-to-nose. Not that I'd consider such a position to be entirely unpleasant. Irises the colour of clotted honey had slipped back into in their sockets, mouth slightly ajar and stained with the blood he'd aspirated as I slit his throat, violent crimson smudgings decorating the smooth skin of his circumoral. The kid had whimpered something that sounded faintly similar to "please" as I pressed the curve of my blade flush to the thin flap of flesh veiling his jugular, cutting a smile across his throat like it was butter and painting both of our bodies red. As was the norm, there came another "please," only the second time it was garbled behind delicious bubbles of expired burgundy.

_Please._ Like I hadn't heard that one before. It was always the same with these people; _oh please spare me, please I have children, a wife, please I'm still so young, please, please, please**. **_Always, always some variation of "please" when you'd have a far greater shot at satiating whatever demon you were hoping to guilt-trip with a simple "thank-you". Or silence. God knows I'd appreciate some peace and fucking quiet once in a while, but if the noisy-ass corpses smeared across my past were any indication, silence was a ribbon-wrapped luxury too exquisite to be peddling for when you're ankle-deep in blood that's not your own.

Nope.

Silence wasn't something I deserved.

As if to prove a point, the strangled whimpers that had clawed their way from my victim's trachea set themselves to replay between my eardrums, a sweet little playlist of antipathy so similar to those previous that I knew it all by heart and had consequentially developed a begrudging nausea brought about by its lull. A sickness of sorts, and an un-fucking-bearable one at that. Of course, if I were playing fair, I'd acknowledge the fact that there was no-one to blame for this "symptom" but myself, really, though it's a bitter reminder when you're contemplated shoving nails through your ears just to hush the noises scratching at the underside of your skull. Oh, but it was _so_ justified. I mean really, what was I expecting? Stifling silence dotted in far-off cricket noises, figurative cotton-swabs pressed to my ears? As if. For reasons too meager to deserve any form of proper recognition, I'd naïvely convinced myself that _this_ kill would be different, that the poor kid bleeding out all over my shoes possessed the morbid spice I'd been craving as of late. The effort I invested into stalking him, researching him, "getting to know" the cocky bastard for days on end was rendered futile the moment I caught a taste of his blood. He tasted just like the rest of them. Stale. Definite. Plain.

_Damn it._ I'd intended to boil his life down to a syrup; honey-medicine serving to sooth the seemingly insatiable hunger that had seized my being. Wasted, all wasted.

Weakly, I extended a finger to nudge his line of vision (or lack thereof) to the opposite direction, finding myself rather irritated by the silent question pouring from his cyanotic lips like a litany. _No. No, don't look at me like that. Close your eyes. Shut your mouth. You mustn't ask such things. _Rigor mortis had yet to set in, so his neck lolled easily on broken joints and it might have served a rather pretty sight had I not been so preoccupied with the going-ons of my own twisted little head to take notice. Going-ons that were strangely fixated on the weather.

I hadn't noticed it before, but the evening air colouring our presence was delightfully cool. Stale, but cool. Polluted by far-off car alarms rousing their respective neighbourhoods, the cloying stench of rotted trash that no-one had bothered to come and collect. I think a dog was barking, somewhere, strangled howls abandoned into the night. But it was _cool_.

It had been one of those horribly oppressive mid-summer afternoons, the kind that populates your local main-street with packs of scantily-clad women topped in floppy, ribboned sunhats, painted denim cut-off to reveal soft, artificially-tanned flesh just inferior to bikini-tops 2 sizes too small, barbie breasts pushed to ridiculous extremes. The kind of afternoon that coffee shops make a fortune off of in sticky, flavourless something-or-others on ice. The kind that you're supposed to spend lazily sprawled out across a beach towel whilst spewing such nonsense as "gee what a lovely day" as you allow the sun-heated beach sand to slow-roast your insides. But it was also the kind of afternoon that took some perverse pleasure in relentlessly tormenting me by choking the air in the cloyingly sweet scent of blood, gruesome perfume that served only to send shocks of pain coursing through my skull everytime I stepped outside. Like the bitter little creature that I was, I had always resented those sorts of days, not the temperature per-say but the _people, _so many _fucking people_, so when the offending heat boiled off to a gentle simmer in the evening and the hordes of exposed flesh had thinned out to a low-calorie varnish I couldn't help but take a moment to revel in how wonderful the thready breeze snaking its way along the gutter felt against the bare nape of my neck. It was surprisingly calming juxtaposed to the events preceding my little breakdown, if you could call it anything less.

I wanted to sleep, to drift away in a blissful state of pseudo-repentance for my sins, but the portion of my brain housing this annoying thing called "reason" retained enough sense to stop me from prying my eyelids shut and slipping off in a bed of blood.

And so, with the limited options I was so generously provided, I chose to stare. And stare. And then stare some more.

Exactly how long I laid there could be up to debate, maybe it was minutes, maybe it was years, but at some point I found myself (embarassingly) unable to maintain the one-sided staring contest initiated by the authority of my disappointment cuddled up in the adjacent gutter, and so my muscles shrieked in protest when I finally staggered to my feet. "Yeah, yeah, you win. Don't look so damn elated_." _I shot bitterly at the sillhouette resting less-than-peacefully at my heels. Whatever dirt and dust that hadn't plastered itself to the blood soaked into my jeans was idly brushed away as I fished through one of my ruined pockets for the sorry excuse of a cellphone that I'd long ago deemed incapable of holding a decent charge. Upon its retrieval I lazily thumbed through the impressively short list of names and numbers saved to its memory, never having been much of a social butterfly. With the exception of my childhood friend Armin, I really only kept company that would serve some practical use, most often in the assistance of body disposal or the odd crime-scene clean up when my primal side allowed things to get out of hand. Surprisingly enough, my adopted sister was among such company, not to mention my own personal preferance when it came to the assistance of such... _delicate _matters. Don't get me wrong, it's not that c_an't _clean up after myself, Lord help me if I'm _that _hopeless, it's that I simply can't be bothered to invest the extra time and effort associated with scrubbing down ruined alley pavement or bagging up a body. And it was for that very reason my thumb stilled its ministrations to a twitching however when I scrolled over Mikasa's name.

_Fuck. Laziness'll be the death of me._

It rang four times before she answered, voice thick with the blunted delirium of someone who was just mid-sleep. Given the hour I had likely woken her up, but if I was being honest with myself, I could count the number of fucks I gave on no fingers.

"Mikasa?"

"Eren, it's so late, what are you-"

Instantly reaching the conclusion that my calling at such an hour should have been obvious, I cleared my throat impatiently. She seemed to catch on quickly enough.

"Ah- do you need...?"

"Yeah."

I described my current location, the hurried scratch of a ballpoint pen against paper tickling the eardrum closest to her voice as Mikasa breathed a quick "I'll be right over" before the line went dead. I lowered my phone, mildy annoyed at the thick stripe of blood I'd somehow managed to smear across its keys and made to wipe it away with the cuff of my hoodie. In the end my efforts had only managed to spread the mess around, a finding that quickly prompted a tired conclusion of "fuck it"_. _Sinking back to the cold comfort of the ground, I allowed my grip to melt, dropping the device to the pavement ahead of me while my free hand crept about my blood-soaked pockets in search of a familiar cardboard packet, fingers curling greedily around squashed, soggy cardboard. I impatiently shook a cigarette from its contents, noting with some degree of disdain the faint tinge of crimson staining the filter. My nose wrinkled slightly at the thought of having that platitudinous taste in my mouth again, but I lit it up all the same._ Ah, well, it can't be helped..._

-x-

Mikasa was midway through blanketing my victim in one final layer of plastic when I sauntered up behind her, the dull thud of my boots muffled by the blood and alley-muck caked to their heels, to extend a freshly baby-wiped hand (as if I would ever even _think_ about touching my sister with filth), roughly carding it through the impressive length of silky, ink-coloured hair that came to rest just above her hips. While she didn't stop what she was doing, it certainly didn't go unnoticed that her actions slowed significantly as I nonchalantly flicked at the neatly-trimmed ends. "You need a haircut." I said simply.

She carefully manipulated her plastic sheet, taking care to tuck it snugly behind my corpse's head before turning to face me, idly picking at her signature red-scarf (that I was 90% sure was due for a wash) as she defensively mumbled into the dense fabric. "I thought you liked my long hair."

"I complimented your hair, what, once? That didn't mean I wanted you to avoid barber shops for the rest of your life."

"So you don't like it?"

I threw my arms into the air, always quick to exasperate. "Jesus Christ Mikasa, don't take everything I say so seriously, you'd still look nice if you sheared it all off. It's just easier for people to grab you when your hair's long, that's all. It gets in the way. Cut it, don't cut it, do whatever."

Mikasa contemplated one of the loose strands framing her face for a moment before gingerly tucking it behind an ear, the faint ghost of a smile playing along her lips. "I guess it is getting a little long."

"_Told_ you." I snapped, busying myself with some spray and a cloth.

"Yeah, whatever, just come help me lift him. You can take the feet. "

"Woah- you can't do it yourself? With _those_ abs of steel? I'm surprised."

"Shut up, Eren." She warned, moving to roll up the sheer, flimsy cuffs of her chocolate-coloured blouse to reveal supple, milky forearms. It was a gesture of dual-meaning, made both in preparation for body-lifting as well as in exemplary caution that she'd have no qualms about socking the sorry smirk right off my face if I didn't hurry up and shut my pie hole. Naturally, I chose to poke the proverbial red-scarved grizzly bear with a stick that was too short for my own good.

"No seriously, they're like a freaking cheese-grater, you could be an Avenger or something-"

"Shut _up, _Eren."

I chuckled darkly at the gentle furrow of her brow, full lips pressed into an expression that told me Mikasa wasn't genuinely cross with my antics, fed up with the way I was making light of what should have been a serious situation, faintly pleased with the little jabs made here and there at her physique, but certainly not cross. Don't ask me why. Perhaps my nonesense reminded her that I still possessed some small shred of humanity, that I wasn't completely lost to whatever the fuck it was taking up residence beneath my skin. Heeding her request, I grasped our little friend around the ankles and hoisted them level with my hips, noting with some degree of perplexity the way Mikasa gently cradled the plastic veil of his head and neck along one of her forearms, the other firmly clasped about his upper torso. It was a surprisingly tender gesture that struck me as rather odd, prompting me to gawk at her for a few moments with a look of 3-parts confusion, 1-part annoyance.

"Why are you being so gentle? You do know he can't feel it?"

"I'm not stupid, Eren."

It took a few moments for the realization to sink in.

"Shit, Mikasa, you didn't happen to _know_ him did you?"

She shifted slightly under my impromptu scrutiny, gaze unwavering. "He goes to my university."

"Oh." I blinked at her. "Well, shit. I'd say I'm sorry, but you know me better than that."

She snorted a little, too softly for me to tell if there were any traces of bitterness laced into her tone. "Yeah."

"This isn't a problem, is it?"

My adopted sister's gaze flicked from my own to the faint outline of my victim's features against the bag and then back again. After a drawn-out moment of awkward silence she gave a little _who cares? _half-shrug, prompting my wicked mouth to curl into what could only be described as a malicious Cheshire-cat grin.

"Of course not."

"Didn't think so."

-x-

A thin red tint began to pool near the shallow dip of the drain as I allowed the scalding heat of my cramped apartment shower to blister my exterior, purging my skin of the night's not-so-innocent activities. I used my fingers to comb out the inconvenient patchwork of matts crowning my skull, noting with some degree of amusement how remarkably soft the chocolate locks felt as several thick crimson clots slid to my feet, catching against the silver rim of the plug. Did blood make your hair softer? The corner of my mouth twitched at the thought, and I made a mental note to share my findings with Mikasa later. A thin cloud of steam had taken up residence in the air, accompanied only by a translucent film resting atop the surface of the bathroom mirror by the time I emerged from the shower, huffing a short breath of annoyance at the inevitable consequences to my water bill. Not that I could help it. It was a ground rule that I had to be extra thorough in my washing when I got covered in blood like that, I'd been careless once before and had found myself in a compromising face-down, wrists-pinned-to-the-couch position while Mikasa attacked the space behind my ears with a wet cloth. Exactly _how _I'd managed to get blood behind my ears was a complete mystery, probably having something to do with the fact that my hobbies weren't exactly clean by nature, exasperated by my tendency to take a perverse enjoyment in making a mess of things. Cleaning up afterwards was a bitch, but the mere sight of some mangled corpse soaked and splayed out in a splatter of its own blood was more than enough compensation for my troubles.

I draped myself in a thin towel, side-stepping the crumpled heap of ruined clothing I'd inevitably have to discard (consistently blood-stained clothes are kind of hard to explain when you use the communal laundry-room) and made my way to the small single-bedroom of my apartment. Despite the limited amount space, the room appeared quite sparse, populated only by a twin bed, a nightstand, a few easels, and a large mahogany wardrobe. Eager to peel off the damp material plastered to my skin, I shucked my towel in favour of a pair of plaid pajama pants, pulling on an old Iron Madien tee before crawling in between the perpetually un-made sheets of my bed and resuming my usual curled-up-facing-the-wall position in preparation for sweet dreams stained crimson.

-x-

"Eren?" A gentle voice tore me from my brooding as I glanced up at the concerned blonde standing before me, hands situated atop of his bony hips. The crimped look of pure frustration stuck to his face told me I'd been blatantly daydreaming in the middle of work. Again.

"Sorry, sorry, just thinking..."

I forced out an airy laugh, hoping he'd go back to whatever it was he was doing as I returned to my sweeping. His brow only furrowed, fine lines creasing his boyish features.

"Late night?"

It was, admittedly, half-teasing, but Armin and I went too far back for me to pass it off as something so elementary. I dragged my gaze upwards, fixing his concerned stare with a well-practiced blank one. The careful mixture of suspicion and genuine concern simmering behind those sapphire orbs was enough to render any normal person fraught with guilt. Unluckily for him though, I wasn't exactly normal by societal standards.

"Ah- I guess you could say that." I allowed my co-worker a lopsided grin, scratching sheepishly at the back of my head. The blonde only pursed his lips before turning on his heel to return to the cash register, inadvertently pinching a breathy sigh of relief from my throat. I had never outright _told _Armin of my- ah- "nightly tendencies", but I was fairly certain he had caught on to the fact that I was up to no good, not-so-discreetly pointing out the occasional speck of blood lodged beneath a fingernail (_oh, must just be some dirt_) or viscous droplet staining the surface of one of my shoes (_ah, I had a nosebleed this morning_). And while I was positive that these minute scraps of evidence Armin had picked up on weren't indisputable enough for him to reach the conclusion that I was some homicidal maniac (which wasn't exactly far from the truth), the pensive look he often shot my way was enough to instill an irrational paranoia deep in the back of my skull. The kid's just about the highest notch on the global food-chain of stupidity, so if anyone were to pick up on what I was, it'd most likely be him. Shaking my head as if to dissipate the offending notion, I forced myself to tear my gaze from the posterior of his delicate stature in favor surveying the occupants of the small cafe.

What? Don't tell me you were expecting something more dramatic? Black-water dealings painted under grime and filth and grit, all unforgiving bones and steel- something like that? Something a little less "people-oriented,"as the pseudo-polite might put it, mouths full of stars, spitting slippery ropes of guile from behind their tea-cups when "fucking sociopath" would serve the same effect? Trust me, I've heard it all, god forbid the evening news showcase some 10-year old who stabbed his entire family, some greenstick puppy with half his milk teeth still tacked to his gums, 'cause coffee shops are the absolute _worst _for gossip, let me tell you.

At first I hadn't even wanted the job, but employment options for a 21 year old dropout too preoccupied with blood and bodies to ever feign consciousness long enough to attend college and make an honest living aren't exactly chomping at the bit, and so, (being the little sweetheart that he is) Armin had put in a good word for me at the local café he full-timed to save up for University. I hadn't fully understood the significance of such a gesture at first, but when my friend's (likely exaggerated) input had allowed my poor excuse for social skills to bypass the horror of a "job interview" I was a little more than thankful, to say the least. And well, everything just kind of fell into place from there. How so? Let's just say you can learn an awful lot about a person by what they order, where they sit, if they have their wallet out and ready to go or if they have to fish around for change as the line gets held up. Sure saves me the trouble of expending my own free-time to go stalking around, if anything.

If I had it my way I'd satisfy the Hunger every single night, but that kind of thinking leads to sloppy work and the last thing I wanted was to rot away the rest of my days as some prison cell boy-toy and so I'd settled for indulging myself once every month or so. Picking through our regulars was how I decided on the last boy, coming in every day at 8 am with that stupid dual-coloured haircut he had tried (and failed, on multiple occasions) to convince me was "natural," not to mention those lovely, pomegranite bruises framing his eyes (college student- no doubt about it) to order a double-shot of espresso coupled with the occasional quip regarding my job performance_. What was his name again? Jean something? _I tapped my heel thoughtfully against the small patch of hardwood that I'd mindlessly swept over at least a dozen times. _Not that it matters anymore, that kid's been wiped off the face of the earth by your own hand. He's all trussed up in plastic, rotting away in some ditch._ _Gone. Finite. Obliterated clean off the edge of the world. You know what that means, don't you?__  
_

My heart quickened its pace at the thought, fluttering excitedly within its cradle of sinew between my lungs like it wanted to detach itself from my body altogether. Was I sick, for getting more worked up over the promise of selecting a new victim than the actual act of taking a life? Well, probably, but I was already sick to begin with, so I suppose that point's pretty moot. Guess it just goes to show you how bored I'd become. Dull canines fervently chewed at the inside of my cheek in anticipation as I allowed my gaze to pan over the shop's inhabitants.

An old man reading the paper. _Too easy. His blood has probably curdled._

A young couple talking animatedly over their lattes, feet touching sweetly beneath the table. _Couple-killing could be tricky..._

A dark-haired man seated at the corner table near the window... _holy fucking hell._

Even in the dim light provided by the cafe's hanging lamps I could tell that his skin was ghostly pale and smooth to the touch, not unlike the expensive, blown-glass quality of a porcelain doll. Thin, perfect eyebrows (seriously? did he pluck them?) drew together over half-lidded eyes that I couldn't quite distinguish as he tapped the side of his mug absentmindedly, gaze travelling over some sort of document. His hair was raven-coloured, styled in an undercut with a neat part, straight bangs cutting off just above the crease of his eyelids. Each feature was sharp and delicate, feline even, and I wasn't the least bit surprised to find that my jaw had unhinged itself to hang open as I gawked. When was the last time I had seen someone so beautiful? No- beautiful didn't do him justice, this guy was absolutely flawless. The black, long sleeved sweater pulled taught over that milky flesh possessed a neckline that was slightly too loose, dipping ever so slightly to reveal enticingly defined collarbones. And that's when I knew. If future historians ever tried to pinpoint the exact moment my soul went strutting off to hell with the intention of throwing itself into the Devil's bed, it would have been right fucking then.

_That's him. That's the one I want._

"Armin!" I hissed, startling the blonde as I locked my fingers in a vice-grip around his forearm, applying a tad more force than was necessary as I ushered him off to the back room. He shot me a look of mixed fear and shock as I sealed the door shut behind him, shushing our conversation from prying ears.

"Eren, I can't just abandon the register-"

I cut him off. "Who is that guy? The one in the corner, with the dark hair?"

Confusion registered in Armin's puppy-dog eyes as I tapped my foot, the sharp click of my heel echoing mindlessly throughout the space we occupied.

"I don't know, I've never seen him before."

"What did he order?" I snapped with all the patience of a starving person.

"Er- just a plain black coffee, Eren what are you-"

I promptly shushed him a wave of my hand, carefully cracking open the door to peer out into the shop. The gorgeous stranger still had his eyes focused on the papers spread out before him, slender hands folded neatly beneath his chin. Being the sick little fuck that I was, my brain instinctually conjured a series of macabre images depicting what he would look like sprawled out on the ground, arms bent out at some horrible angle, maybe a few broken ribs and some bruises marring that perfect white flesh. The thought effectively produced a noticeable twitch in one of my lower "extremities" as I allowed my tongue to dart out over the crack of my lips, pointed corners of my mouth tugging back towards my ears.

_Oh god I am so fucking sick._


	2. Ambrosia

**Notes: I gave Eren his titan hair. Also he likes Grey's Anatomy. I'm not sorry at all.**

_Crunch._

_The sound of those delicate pale fingers snapping beneath the heel of my boot was enough to set my heart aflutter, a familiar shiver travelling the length of my spinal cord and rendering me weak in the knees. I couldn't help but revel in the sound, trodding carefully against the bruised appendages as they fractured and popped._

_The cracked flesh of my lips curled away in an absent smirk as I took a step back to admire my handiwork. The broken body before me lay face-up, splayed out in the dirty alley gutter like some horrible white mannequin carefully positioned for my own sick viewing pleasure. It was provocative. Filthy. The figures's head was tilted back, features relaxed in an expression that could have belonged to a sleeping person- a delectable contrast to the perpetually irritable mask he normally wore. A violent choker of crimson adorned the exposed flesh of his throat._

_"Perfect. Absolutely perfect." I cooed, sauntering to the tangle of limbs and lowering myself eagerly into the lap of my prize. I dug the blood-slick pads of my fingertips into the back of his neck and carefully pressed his upper body flush with mine, feeling the last remnants of human warmth fade away through the thin material of my victim's sweater. With a trembling finger, I gently brushed away the inky black locks that had haphazardly fallen across his eyes and lowered my mouth to purr against the cold shell of his ear._

_"Do you have any idea how beautiful you look right now?"_

_A quiet giggle reverberated against my vocal chords as the question was left unanswered._

"Eren?"

_"Don't leave just yet my sweet…"_

"Are you even listening to me?"

Ah. My adopted sister appeared to be glaring at me from across our food. I had been daydreaming again, and not just one of those _I wonder if I left the tap on _kind of daydreams but rather an _oh my god I think I'm in love kind of daydream_. I drew my eyebrows together in frustration, fixing her calculating stare with one of my signature "why the hell are you bothering me " looks as she just breathed a quiet sigh and set down her hamburger. The vivid images my diseased little mind had conjured up just a few moments previous were effectively dissolved the moment Mikasa cleared her throat to speak. I allowed my fingertips to tap sporadically against the cool plastic of the diner table we occupied. How she had managed to coax me from the warm confines of my apartment while there was a freaking Grey's Anatomy marathon on TV was a complete mystery.

"Are you alright?"

It was a phrase that I had heard so many times it no longer held any meaning, like when you repeat a particular word over and over until the syllables grow foreign and uncomfortable on your tongue. The privilege of receiving a proper response from me had been stripped of Mikasa years ago, snatched from the rest of society long before that. I'm not even sure there ever was a time I was truly _all right_, given that every fibre of my being right from the feverish inner workings of my brain to the scarlet soles of my shoes was just so, so wrong. If slashing up strangers and dancing on their graves is ever deemed appropriate behaviour, I'll be right as rain.

"Never better." I nibbled on a fry.

The corners of her mouth twitched in disappointment, gaze falling to the half-eaten hamburger that sat between us. I absentmindedly smoothed down the crinkled paper bag my own food had arrived in; concluding that the manipulative girl sitting across from me was likely trying to guilt me into admitting something. It wasn't working.

"Is something wrong?"

"Nope."

"Are you coming down with anything?"

Irritation bubbled up in my gut. "Do I look freaking sick to you?"

"You seem distracted."

"Oh,_ accurate_ observation, Mikasa. Do tell me more."

It wasn't as if her intentions were sour, but my sister's over-protective nature often got under my skin and it annoyed the absolute hell out of me. Ever since we were children, she'd cling to me like some sort of red-scarved parasite. "Protecting me," as she liked to call it. The notion was ridiculous- I was the kind of thing people needed to be protected _from_, certainly not vice versa. The first time she caught me standing over some lifeless husk, knife in hand and drenched in blood with a manic sort of grin plastered to my face, you know what she did? _Asked me if I was alright. Wiped the blood from my face like it was paint._ _Took my hand, walked me home. _Perhaps my sister was more twisted than I gave her credit for. I popped another fry in my mouth and chewed bitterly._ Too salty._

"Eren, you know you can confide in me-"

_"Enough, Mikasa."_

I picked at the rest of my food in silence, effectively blocking any further attempts at conversation. I was eager to return to my musings, the painted face of a stranger still fresh in my mind. Having others fret over my well-being wasn't exactly something I was comfortable with (or used to for that matter); caring for a monster that wears a human face seemed an all-too ridiculous scenario. Monster… it was accurate slur I branded myself with- not even Mikasa could deny the truth to it. Sickness was real inside me, like an organ. Slit at my stomach and it might flop out, all dark and red and meaty, ready to be stomped on. The irony of "hunter" being a part of my name was infinitely not lost on me.

Yeah. Jaeger blood was _bad._

My eyes were trained on the plaster ceiling of the diner counting the various marks that pocked its surface when something rough brushed the corner of my mouth. Instinctively I flinched away, seizing the wrist that had been extended across the table towards me in an able grip. Mikasa's eyes narrowed, upper body half-leant out of her seat with a napkin clutched in her hand. I allowed my features to harden.

"You had some food on your face." Her tone was unreadable, lips pulled taught in a thin line of indifference.

Repulsed, I shoved her hand away from me, watching as she cradled the appendage against the soft material of her blouse and gingerly rubbed at the beginnings of bruises I had left there. I pushed back my chair and stumbled to my feet, the gentle expression she wore doing nothing to soften the next words that left my iniquitous mouth.

_"Don't touch me."_ The demand escaped my throat in the form of a snarl. _"Never, ever touch me."_

I turned on my heel without a passing glance at the woman who thought she knew all my secrets.

-x-

_I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we managed to stop the bleeding. The bad news is that we gave your penis to the cops._

I snorted, one hand absentmindedly digging around in the bottom of a Dorito's bag as the flickering light of my television cast dancing shadows all around the room. At least I'd escaped from Mikasa early enough to catch an episode or two of Grey's Anatomy before my shift at the café started. I raised the tips of fingers (now thoroughly coated in chip-dust) to my mouth and sucked on each with a lewd pop. Mikasa should have known better than to try and touch me. If there's one thing that makes me uncomfortable, its genuine human contact. Not the casual kind, the way you might high-five a friend or shake someone's hand, but the honest, caring touch of a hug or a kiss. Not that I had any experience in those departments, despite reaching the ripe-old age of 21. I gave an audible sigh, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness that accompanied slouching around on a couch for an hour and flipped open my laptop. The dull tone of a new message greeted me as I logged into Skype.

**armin-armout: **Hey do you work today? I've got a shift at 3

**jaegermeister:** yoooooooo

**armin-armout:** "Yo?" What, did you join a gang?

**jaegermeister:** i did. had to bite off another guy's dick for initiation

**armin-armout**: Excuse me!?

**jaegermeister**: tasted like chicken

**armin-armout:** Ew, Eren, that's really gross. Like really freaking gross.

**jaegermeister:** hahaha its on the episode of greys im watching. kind of

**jaegermeister**: could you imagine though

**armin-armout**: You're absolutely disgusting

**jaegermeister**: sorry not sorry. i work at 3 as well by the way

**armin-armout**: Hmm. Suddenly I'm not so thrilled to see you.

**jaegermeister:** ouch. if its any consolation i'll keep my mouth 5 feet from your cock at all times

**armin-armout**: EREN I HATE YOU SO MUCH I'M SIGNING OFF

**jaegermesiter: **must have struck a nerve for you to break out the capitals

_**armin-armout is now** offline_

The flustered blush I knew I had elicited from my friend had me absolutely cackling by the time I shut my laptop.

-x-

Half an hour later I was fastening the thin straps of my work apron around the worn Bullet for my Valentine t-shirt and dark-wash skinny jeans I had donned before leaving the complex, sweeping the chocolate brown hair that reached just below my ears into a loose ponytail. I twisted one of the strands that had escaped the elastic in favour of hanging in my face, making a mental note to get Mikasa to give me a hair-cut later. Rummaging around in the shallow pockets of my uniform I unsuccessfully fished around for a bobby pin before settling on stealing one of Armin's, pinning the loose strands to the side as my fingertips grazed the cool metal of the many piercings decorating the shell of my ear. _Maybe I should get my eyebrow done next_ I mused, humming thoughtfully to no one in particular as Armin entered the stuffy back room. He shot me an innocent smile as he retrieved his own apron from the cubby next to mine, struggling with the fastenings for a few moments before spinning around and motioning to the dangling threads in wordless gesture. I chuckled and moved to tie them.

"Hey Armin?"

"Please don't make a penis joke."

"I wasn't going to!"

"I'm sure." The eye-roll was implied. I kicked him in the back of the shin.

"Mind if I work the cash register today?"

As I finished with the knots he spun back around to face me, confusion written all over his boyish features.

"You hate working cash. Even more than liquorice ice-cream."

I allowed my mouth to fall open in an expression of mock-hurt, barely missing the tiny glimmer of suspicion that flashed behind the blonde's eyes as he fixed me with a cheeky grin.

"First of all, liquorice is fucking gross on its own, whatever bastard decided to spoil ice-cream with it needs to answer for his crimes against humanity. That shit is rank. Secondly, I don't hate working cash I'm just sick of sweeping and cleaning toilets."

It wasn't a lie, scrubbing the filth of strangers from bathroom stalls wasn't exactly the preferred way to spend my shifts, and taking orders allowed me to people-watch. Not that I had any interest in the general public, seeing as one particular dark-eyed stranger had taken up permanent residence in my thoughts as of yesterday evening. Furthermore, if he happened come in today, I'd be able to get a closer look. Drown myself in colour of his eyes, revel in his voice. _Shit, is my mouth watering?_

"Hey, hey, watch the language!" I snorted in spite of myself. Sometimes it was easy to forget how pure and innocent my friend was. Despite our being the same age, he was clearly a virgin (for reasons other than my own). The mere thought of sex probably rendered him a red-faced, stuttering mess. Another reason I couldn't bring myself to force my twisted little world on him. Paint a picture of my soul, it'd be a mass of scribbles and blood. "Yeah, I'll clean today. Just be nice to the customers this time."

"I'm always nice to the customers. Ah- horse-face excluded of course."

"He's not a horse-face!"

It took me a moment to register the faint blush dusting Armin's fair complexion. I hadn't even meant to mention Jean, my lips had moved on their own accord but it was too late to play it off and the bashful expression marring my best friend's soft features was enough to turn my stomach. _Shit, he didn't happen to… is it even possible for someone like Armin to fall for a douche like that? If so…_ I didn't press the matter, fleeing from the break-room with a quick wave as some horrible cold feeling began to pool near the bottom of my gut. I cursed to myself. If I had to list a weakness, it'd be Armin.

-x-

"That'll be seven dollars and eighty five cents."

I pushed the far-too-expensive beverage across the counter in a huff, brushing the hair from my eyes as I scanned the shop for what must have been the millionth time. Nothing. Perhaps my favorite customer wasn't coming in after all. Come to think of it, I hadn't even seen him before yesterday (there's no way I'd forget a face like that), and neither had Armin by the sounds of it. Perhaps he wasn't a regular. My heart must have dropped a few inches as I struggled to push the thought to the back of mind.

"Eren, don't nod off, you have customers!"

Groaning, I carefully placed the ordered drinks on a tray and wove my way through the small tables that were crowded together on the shop floor, nearly spilling them several times as my mind wandered. _What if I never see him again? I don't even know what colour his eyes are, the way he talks, his name… Ah. What a pretty picture he would have painted, sprawled out with a severed jugular. If only…_ I was on my way back to the register, tray tucked beneath one arm, when my foot caught the leg of a chair and sent me flying forwards.

_Shit._

I threw my arms out in front of me and screwed my eyes shut, bracing for impact, when something hard caught me around the middle. It nearly knocked the wind out of my lungs and I choked for a few moments before coming to my senses.

"Oi, brat. Watch where the hell you're going."

**Notes: Thanks for reading! I don't have a beta so feedback is appreciated**


	3. Espresso

**Notes: I am so sorry this chapter** **sucks but I'm in the middle of midterms right now- I will make the next chapter longer when I'm not so busy. Anyway, please enjoy!**

"Oi, brat. Watch where the hell you're going."

The adrenaline rush causing my heart to beat a violent tattoo into the wall of my chest began to slow as I regained my balance, weight shifting to wobbly knees. I blinked a few times. What was I doing again? _Ah, that's right. Daydreaming and falling over your ass like an idiot._ As my orientation returned to me I slowly released the gasp of panic my lungs had drawn in, exhaling in sheer relief that my teeth and the floor hadn't become intimately acquainted. The empty tray I'd been holding was pressed uncomfortably against my side by the limbs encircling my upper body and I squirmed slightly under the pressure. The distinct essence of cigarette smoke mixed with some chemical scent reminiscent of bleach filled my senses. "U-um..."

The arms that were looped around my middle abruptly shoved me to my feet, wedging a polite (and much-appreciated) distance between the two of us as I took a step back to brush away the ever-obstinant coffee-colored locks that had fallen across my cheekbones when I tripped. The faint heat pooling in my cheeks elicited a twitch of irritation from the corner of my mouth.

_Curse that asshole. Curse him and his damned perfect face. Curse his damned perfect face and over-sized sweater for distracting me and sending me well on my way to a mouthful of wood panelling. _ I paused. _Thank god he's not here to see me stomping around like a clutz._

Carefully, I straightened myself up and adjusted my apron, muttering a low "thank you" to my savior before turning on the weathered heel of my converse. I kept my eyes trained on the ground; it was embarassing enough to have almost fallen flat on my face and even more so due to the fact I'd thrown myself into some guy's arms like a bride on her wedding day. I picked my way back to the counter where Armin was wiping down the milk steamer with a damp cloth.

"Hey, Armin. Can you handle the customers for a few seconds? I'm going to use the washroom."

"Hiding in the bathroom won't make you less of a clutz."

"Stumbling a little bit doesn't elicit enough embarassment to warrant hiding in the fucking bathroom."

"No, but tripping into a stranger's arms does warrant hiding in the f-ing bathroom."

I growled as Armin giggled softly. "I'm being serious. I have to piss like a racehorse."

The blonde wrinkled his nose at my choice of language and waved me away, tossing his cloth into the sink and turning to face the line of customers that had accumulated during my little stunt. I flashed him a quick grin and pushed my way into the breakroom, exhaling sharply as my back met the cool wood of the door I'd just closed. Fantasizing about my newest plaything during work hours clearly wasn't the greatest idea with regards to my personal safety (and the safety of those around me, for that matter) but that perfect face had been forcibly ingrained into the back of my retinas. I paced the length of the cramped room, absentmindedly shredding off one of my nails between my teeth. I knew if I let my mind wander too far I would risk popping a boner in the middle of my shift and I'd be damned if I embarassed myself twice in one day. It must be illegal to be that tempting. _That's right, it's all his fault. __You can think about him all you want after work, for now... try to focus on something else. Armin's grandpa, think about Armin's grandpa. _

Satisfied with my resolution, I joined my best friend at the register after a quick attempt to re-tie my ponytail.

"Alright, anything you need me to do?"

He pushed a small mug of black coffee into my hands, steering me toward the shop floor. "Take this over to the corner table near the front window. Oh, and please try not to spill scalding coffee all over our customers. I don't mind if you burn yourself, but-"

I stomped on his toes playfully. "That didn't happen the first time!"

"Well it _could_ have..."

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, rolling my eyes at the sheepish grin the blonde offered and carefully began to thread my way through the shop's copious population of tables and chairs. A glance at the antique clock fixed above the door told me that it was nearing 6:00pm, one of our busier hours. I struggled to steady myself, hypervigilant of the chatter and movement going on around me. _Alright, don't trip, focus on the task at hand. Focus on Armin's grandpa. _

I reached the table successfully and carefully set down the drink so as not to spill any of the steaming liquid onto the polished wood and turned to leave. The steely gaze of the table's occupant, however, conveniently cemented the soles of my feet to the cafe floor. The rose blush dusting my complexion must have deepened to an embarrassing wash of carmine as I gaped at the figure before me, one long-fingered hand resting beneath the curve of his chin in a peculiarly predatory pose.

_Ah._

I craned my neck to peer over my shoulder and glare at Armin, who was currently busying himself with the sink. Even with his back turned, I could see his petite shoulders shaking in a fit of silent laughter. Did he plan this? He must have remembered my not-so-subtle reaction to seeing this guy yesterday. Poor Armin probably thought I had a crush him.

_That little shit_. I chewed my lip, half-annoyed and half-appreciative of my friend's cockiness and turned back to the figure nonchalantly tracing the rim of his mug with the tip of one of those pianist fingers.

One slight eyebrow was cocked in an inquiring arch above narrowed orbs the colour of gunmetal, a cool gaze shot with animus that effectively hitched my breath and caused my pupils to pool hungrily. I shamelessly perused his small frame. He was wearing a scoop-necked grey cotton sweater that dipped just below the jut of his collarbones, the thin fabric clinging to the slender curve of his hips with long pale fingers just barely peeking out from beneath the sleeves. That sight alone had my heart fluttering- the article almost looked like it had come from the women's department and served as a surprisingly- dare I say- _cute _contrast to the mask of indifference plastered to his sharp features. I wasn't one to focus on sexual preference, hell I had never really looked at either gender with regards to sexual attraction but even I couldn't deny that he looked damn good. My eyes strayed to the dark, full lashes that rimmed his cat-like eyes, gifting his face with a more feminine demeanor. His skin was so smooth and white, I wanted to touch, wanted to feel the thready pulse of his carotid artery beneath my fingertips. That porcelain complexion was so synonymous to the exquisite hue of Death I couldn't help but lick my at my lips greedily, nearly missing the next words that escaped the thin press of his mouth.

"The hell are you staring at, kid?"

"Ah-"_ Even his voice is beautiful. Like crushed velvet_. I cursed at the way my voice trembled, struggling to form a coherent sentence around shallow, rapid breaths that were causing my chest to constrict painfully._ Oh, he' so close to me._ I idly wondered how that exposed, slender neck would feel if I pressed my fingers into his throat and crushed his trachea, how pretty he'd look in a necklace of purple bruising against porcelain. How I'd love to twist that stoic expression into one of fear, one of fright and helplessness. The dark-haired man only folded his arms, one foot tapping smartly against the dull hardwood. I gulped, contemplating the manner in which I should respond in order to draw out the conversation a little longer.

"S-sorry!" I forced out a nervous laugh, wringing my wrists in a gesture intended to be timid. "I guess I just kinda spaced out."

My prey simply sipped his coffee, fixing me with a lazy stare through the thin curls of steam. I fidgeted slightly under his gaze. _Is he going to say anything?_

After a few moments of stiff silence I scratched the back of my head, lips pulling into a docile simper. _Am I creeping him out? Maybe the "nervous kitten" approach isn't the best fit for this guy. Better get out of here before I scare him off. _ "Ah, I better get back to work then-_  
_

"Hey, brat." " The phrase escaped his throat in a low purr, genuinely startling me to the point I almost fell again. The tone had a certain "come hither" quality, an odd but arresting contrast to the bare meaning of the words it framed.

"M-my name isn't brat!"

"What _is_ your name then?"

I cocked my head to the side. _Why would he want to know such a thing?_ "It's Eren."

"Well, _Eren_." The way he emphasized the syllables of my name sent a paroxysmal shiver up the length of my spine. "Take care not to trip over yourself on your way back, wouldn't want to smash in that pretty mouth of yours, yeah?"

The vellus hairs gracing the back of my neck prickled slightly.

_Is he honestly hitting on me right now? And here I thought'd he'd be all stoic and unapproachable. This is too fucking easy._

I allowed my face to flood with heat in a well-practiced blush as his mouth curled into the barest hint of a smirk, a glimmer of something dark and visceral flitting across polished silver. IF I was already on-edge, that flash of predatory lust sent me over the top. I had barely managed a "sorry, sorry!" before half-sprinting towards the breakroom.

I made it to the stall just in time to jerk twice to the sanguineous fantasies my abhorrent little brain had produced before I came all over my hands.

-x-

"Eren?"

Armin had a mischievous look on his face, holding a rag he had been using to wipe down the tables in one hand, a scrap of napkin clutched in the other. He turned to face me with an impish grin spread from ear to ear as he offered up the material. "I think this is for you."

The napkin had been scrawled on in neat black cursive, addressed to "brat," followed by a phone number, and a loopy signature of "Levi."

S_o that's how it's going to be is it? Heh._

_Well, Levi,_ I mused, fighting the blitheness swelling beneath my chest. _You've just made my job a whole lot easier._


	4. Pastel

**Notes: Ta da. Sorry about the dialogue I don't get out much. More Levi development in the next chapter**

"_Please_ Armin, don't die… you can't, not after how far we've come. Just hold on a little but long- ARMIN, NO!"

An exasperated grumble escaped my lips as the thin scrawl "Arminiya has died" flashed across my screen, the mage muttering a soft-spoken "oh, drat!" from his perch at the computer desk. I ripped off my headset in an irrational kind of sulk, disturbing the perpetually un-tidy brown mop that had tangled beneath it and lobbed the appliance in blonde's general direction- smacking him square in the bony part of the shoulder with a satisfying "thunk" as well-used plastic connected with flesh. The hinges of the shabby office chair Armin occupied creaked in protest as he swivelled a 180 to fix me with the most perturbed glare his soft little shota features could muster, prompting me to snort and choke on my soda.

"What was that for!?" The look on his face was reminiscent of a spurned puppy.

"Being a moron." I managed to sputter between productive coughs, inspired Mountain Dew burning a rough passage down the length of my trachea.

Due to a lack of anything productive to do on our Sunday off, Armin and I had opted for a lazy afternoon of achievement grinding on WoW, a promising affair that quickly deteriorated into nothing more than a gruelling trial of my patience. Whatever malevolent being that had possessed us to try and 3-man Icecrown Citadel sure had a callous sense of humour, and our little afternoon reverie promptly earned the ever-appropriate title of "How to Make Eren Lose His Shit in an Hour or Less." I gave a tired groan, setting aside my laptop on the clean press of Armin's quilt in favour of being slaughtered by Saurfang _yet again_ and slithered to the floor in a boneless heap. Armin shot me a withering look before pressing the pliant material of his headset's mic a few inches from his mouth with an outstretched finger.

"Mikasa wants to know if you smashed your keyboard again, because she's not buying you a new one."

I snarled into the carpet. "Fuck you."

Armin only flashed a set of perfect teeth, allowing his mic to snap back into place as he resumed speaking into the device.

"Eren sends his love from the comfort of my bedroom floor. He- what? Yeah, he's pouting again. Tearing up a little, I believe-"

The blonde just barely managed to dodge the lazy swing I'd aimed at his calves, giggling softly as the chair was teasingly wheeled out of my reach. A defeated whine escaped my throat that had been compressed by my graceless positioning; limbs sprawled with one cheek pressed flush to the rough carpet fibres in a gesture suggesting I'd died of frustration. Armin snorted.

"Yeah I think he's done playing for now, maybe we can get a group together and try some other time. Besides, I'm fairly fond of my furniture and we all know what happens when Eren throws one of his little MMORPG induced tantrums." He met the cadaverous glare I was shooting him from behind my makeshift curtain of messy umber locks with an innocent grin. "Yeah, yeah I will. Eren, say bye to Mikasa."

"Byyyye Mikasaaaaa." I drawled, raising my voice just high enough to be heard over Armin's mic as my vocal chords produced an uncomfortably palpable hum between my larynx and the carpet. A soft "goodbye" panned through the crackly reception, followed by a dull "click" that let me know my adopted sister had ended the call. I sighed, stretching slightly against the ground. I liked Mikasa, I really did, and the enjoyment stitched into her tone was too genuine to overlook. My reaction to her ministrations of the day previous hadn't been entirely uncalled for, but it was never my intention to seriously hurt her feelings. As over-bearing as my sibling could be, I was honestly fond of her company (a colossal achievement, trust me). The list of things she's done for me over the years has metastasized at a cancerous rate and often has me wondering just how much more she'll have to sacrifice until whatever twisted debt she'd created in her own head would finally be paid off. Although unlikely (as Mikasa is the last definition of fragile) any sore feelings she may have harboured towards my little outburst had been soothed the moment I'd called her up to quest with Armin and I for a long-overdue achievement run. Perhaps my not-so-commodious reaction to her prying would discourage such behaviour in the future.

Ah. But that was what any normal friend would do, correct? Care. Connect. Reach out to those they loved. _Pry._

No, no that absolutely wouldn't do. It was the _prying_ that got to me. My raw, unprocessed emotions were mine and mine alone, scraping around somewhere within the secluded corners of my skull for the viewing pleasure of an empty stage. As it always had been, and always would be.

But _why_? In her defense, she had only tried to help in what way she saw fit. Was I so afraid of what Mikasa would find if she were to crack open the shell I'd worked so diligently to build? Afraid of what I would find?

The glaring banality my tone of thought had adopted earned me a sharp pinch on the thigh as I found the content horribly reminiscent of that "In the Mind of a Serial Killer" crap middle-aged cat ladies watch through the grainy film of their cable. I think if Mikasa or Armin ever tried to psychoanalyze me or some shit I'd kick them both in the teeth. In all honesty I'd never cared about what made me tick. What really mattered was the fact _that_ I ticked, albeit irregular and off-beat. It's possible all manner of horrors lurk beneath my bones, thick and clotted in some sort of congealed mass that you could hold in one palm. On the other hand, I could be completely void of anything truly relevant- built and built of fragile layers that would disintegrate between your fingertips into minute flakes of scarlet ash as you peeled them back with a careful finesse only to find more layers and _more_ layers. Eventually you might grow tired of sifting and simply blister them away with the lit end of a match.

Alternatively, I could be anatomically sound; ribcage and visceral organs intact and positioned comfortably in my cavities- only they would all be on the wrong side.

I killed because I was hungry. I was hungry because I killed. Don't ask me why, I've never harboured any interest in such knowledge. As I've mentioned, digging too deep into your own inner-workings only creates a fleshy pit of psychosis you can't claw your way back out of. Slit me open, hollow out my husk, just do it when I'm dead. Do it when the world has gone to shit because I sure as hell don't want to be around when some curious asshole decides to smash open Pandora's Box.

Armin stretched with a strident little mouse-like sound and shuffled his way to the mini fridge situated in the corner, perusing its contents for a moment before settling on a can of Sprite. He glanced over his shoulder.

"You want anything?"

Feeling it wasn't necessary to end the relationship between my face and the floor I extended one arm, palm upturned expectantly.

"Dew me."

There was a pregnant pause and I giggled stagnant air. The corners of my mouth had inadvertently curled upwards in a poorly-hidden smirk as I pictured the spent look my friend must be wearing.

"Hey. Hey Armin. Get it? _Dew_ me."

I yelped in pain when the blonde decided it'd be appropriate to fling the can of soda at the back of my skull instead of simply handing it to me, wondering aloud if I knew just how dumb I sounded half the time. I only chuckled and retrieved the now-dented aluminum, pulling myself upright to lean against the wood of his bedframe with a paltry wince.

"You do know that_ Arminiya_ is a painfully feminine name, right?" I quipped, cracking open my pop and quickly covering the opening with my mouth to prevent the shaken-fizz from frothing all over my hand. "If your character wasn't male, everyone'd think you were a girl."

"I don't take criticism for someone who named their worgen _Jaegrrrrr_."

"That was clever!"

"It wasn't."

I dismissed the retort with a lazy wave.

"Yeah, yeah well I'd rather quest with a gender-confused Armin than- hey!" He had attempted to swat me upside the head to which I playfully brushed his fingers away before continuing. "I'd rather quest with _you_ than freaking Mikasa all the time. She follows me around absolutely everywhere and she's just so..." I allowed my wrist to rotate mindlessly clockwise as I grappled for the most appropriate adjective. _"Possessive_."

"I'll bet everyone thinks she's your WoW girlfriend." He took a pointed sip of his soda. "Possessive how?"

"One time this guy ninja-looted Gurthalak while we were doing a Dragon Soul run and she hunted him down afterwards and made him hand it over."

"Oh my god."

_"Eren's been trying to get that sword for weeks, where do you get off going and snatching up something you don't even need-"_

Armin giggled fitfully at the horrible Mikasa impression I'd adopted, nearly repeating my little soda-snorting episode from earlier. I thumped him on the back.

"Y-you can't-"he coughed a bit as I retracted my hand "you can't be serious."

"Not even kidding. Not like he really had a choice though; she absolutely annihilated the poor guy in a duel."

"Well if he was dumb enough to challenge Mikasa to duel, he kinda deserved getting his butt handed to him."

"Clearly."

And just like that, Armin and I fell back into a mindless chatter and it was the kind of palliative soundtrack I think I could listen to for the rest of my life. Sitting across from my best friend and bickering over trivial nothings while drinking Sprite and Mountain Dew- it was all just so _normal_.Whether Armin knew it or not, these painfully human moments almost, almost offered a brief respite from the righteous hell burning in on itself within my skull. Fate had been unwholesomely kind the day the quiet, blonde boy who was teased for his perfect grades and out-dated haircut had approached my desk and shyly asked if I wanted to trade Pokémon. Armin provided me with a normalcy I didn't deserve. He was the fulcrum to my sanity.

Of course I'd realized it would all come crashing down around me sooner or later. A wolf can only wear sheep's clothing for so long and I'm not the kind of creature that deserves the luxury of nice things like normalcy. Armin? Of course. Mikasa? Threefold. Me? Well, let's just say they've got a special seat in hell with my name on it.

There was once a time I'd tried to pretend that I wasn't one of God's rejects, that I wasn't just some flesh-and-blood manifestation of anathema that wore a coat of human skin and so I'd locked away my knives and slapped a smile on my face in a dissociative sort of fit. Those were the days Mikasa would ask why I was crying and I could never give her coherent answer because I hadn't even realized someone like me was capable of tears until I reached up and felt them hot and sticky along the sides of my face.

Ah, but that was a long time ago. Guilt, grievance, a regressive refusal to accept what I was- these were all foreign matters that my body had developed an impressive resistance to. Such human responses had been numbed by years and years of infection and subsequent scar tissue so that the only real state I lived in now was a gripping sort of hunger. And I embraced it with open arms.

"So." Armin interjected, wrenching me from my thoughts as he tipped his Sprite at an obtuse angle with his mouth in an attempt to drain the last bits of liquid before carefully placing the now-empty can into the small wastebasket beneath his desk. I crushed my own, lazily tossing the crumpled aluminum so that it skittered off the rim of the basket and stained Armin's carpet with a fine mist of residual beverage. The blonde fixed me with a tired expression reminiscent of one you might give a perpetually mis-behaving puppy before making to sop up the smattering of neon droplets with a tissue. I gave an apologetic shrug. _Two kinds of people._

He wadded up the tissue and promptly discarded it before turning to face me, pulling his skinny knees up into his chest and looping his arms around them in a protective sort of gesture, as if he could already predict my reaction to the next question to leave his lips.

"So are you gonna call that guy or what?"

Ah.

I'd been expecting this, and thus had spent a considerable portion of my brisk 15-minute walk to Armin's apartment trying to formulate an appropriate response. Oh course I was going to call him. And Armin couldn't know. How would it look, if I were to establish regular contact with someone who would be nothing more than a smudge of blood staining the heel of my boot in a few weeks' time? Armin was already suspicious of me and_ I_ had already expressed a blatant interest in this "Levi." So I picked my words carefully, silently forming them with my tongue several times before actually parting my lips to speak.

"Coffee-shop guy? Ah. No I don't think so. He's not really my type."

My features were composed into what I had hoped was an innocent expression of mild dis-interest as azure pools reflecting thinly-veiled suspicion narrowed into thin slits.

"Really? You were absolutely fawning over him before, how can he not be your type?"

I forced a breezy chuckle from my throat and scratched the back of my head in a diffident sort of gesture. _He's not gonna let me off easy, is he?_

"I was not_ fawning_ over him Armin, and that was before we'd actually spoken. I'm honestly not interested anymore. He just seems a little too… ah, how should I put this. He just seems a little too forward for my liking."

"Forward?"

"He said I had a pretty mouth."

Armin's expression softened a little as he pressed his lips into a thin smirk and poked me in the ribs. "So? Isn't that a good thing?"

"Well, not exactly- I, uh… Armin, please don't make me explain this."

He surveyed me carefully for a few moments before a flash of realization flitted behind his pupils and he allowed his mouth to fall open in a potent "O" before snapping it back shut, the initial rose dustings of a blush settling over his doll-like complexion.

"Oh. Oh-hoh. I see how it is. You like them passive."

"Armin!"

It wasn't exactly a lie- even I couldn't deny my questionably platonic fetish for control. I enjoyed bringing people to their knees, just in the last way you'd think. The light flush of embarrassment my friend wore quickly morphed into a devious little grin and he jabbed me in the ribs again.

"You like your men… _submissive."_

The way he had painfully forced his tone of voice to take on a husky, sultry quality was so horribly out-of-character that it sent a string of giggles from my lips and I was once again revelling in a lapse of Armin-induced normalcy. Sure, there was the soft-spoken _please don't use swear words in front of me_ Armin but there was also the mischievous little teasing Armin that enjoyed getting under my skin. Deciding to play along, I inched closer to him- lowering my eyelids in a half-moon gaze that caused the blonde to swiftly cover his mouth in a poor attempt hide the laughter threatening to escape from his throat.

"That's right." I purred, pausing to slide a hand up his calf as he shook in silent hilarity. "I also like them_ blonde."_

If he was forming a retort, it was drowned by peals of laughter from both parties and all I could think of was how I'd never be able to thank fate enough for bringing me Armin.

-x-

_Brat_

_(xxx)-xxx-xxxx_

_~Levi_

I traced my finger along the shallow indents his pen had left against the napkin I held between two fingers; the material now creased and softened as a result of my folding and re-folding it over again so many times. I inadvertently crushed the pliant scrap in my fist when my toaster chimed a sharp "ding" and I set it down on the counter in favour of burning my fingertips as I attempted to transfer my under-done toast to a plate. I hissed and nearly dropped it on the floor.

I'd been trying to work up the courage to give Levi a call ever since I'd returned to the comfort of my own apartment, but now, standing awkwardly in my cramped kitchen staring at the number he'd given me, I found myself strangely reserved. _Curse my lack of social skills._

After rummaging around in the pantry searching for butter or jam or something I ran a hand through my muss of hair and made a mental note to stop by the supermarket later, setting down my disappointing dinner to fish around for the outdated cellphone occupying one of my pockets. I figured if I was too neurotic to give him a call, I could always text him provided he had given me his cell number, and not his home phone. I fumbled with the appliance once I had retrieved it, fingers shaking in thready anticipation._ That's it Eren, get flustered over a guy who's a good five inches shorter than you_ I thought bitterly, thumbing through the pixelated icons to type out a tentative message.

_06/12/13 7:16pm_

_To: (xxx)-xxx-xxxx_

_Hey, is this Levi?_

Satisfied, I snapped my phone shut, placing it on the counter to take a large bite of under-seasoned toast. The second my fingers left the cheap plastic, however, the offending instrument trilled out an annoying default ringtone as if on cue, prompting me to choke on my food and scramble to flip it open. _Number unknown_. I chewed hurriedly and pressed the device to my ear, cursing the way my voice was muffled in between swallows of bread.

"H-hello?"

"I gave you my number so you could call me, you know."

The silken voice filtering in through the device had me spitting out the rest of my dinner into the sink and hastily making to clear my throat in a string of thin coughs.

"Who is this?" I half-demanded, even though I knew exactly who it was purring into his phone like a damned cat on the other side of the call.

A low chuckle reverberated against my eardrums. "I think you know exactly who this is." It was sultry and teasing, and he must have noticed the marked hitch in my breath because he continued with a candid "Awe, are you shy?"

"N-no I am not shy!" I bit out, hoping he'd interpret the waver in my voice as school-girl nervousness and not the raw flurry of excitement currently coursing through my veins at the looming prospect of turning that smooth voice into sandpaper. I fidgeted slightly. "Why are you calling me?"

"Why do you_ think_ I'm calling you?"

I wanted to spit an indignant _well, I don't know!_ into the receiver but swallowed my compulsions in favour of attempting to match his suggestive advances, reminding myself that I was the one in control here.

"Enlighten me, will you?"

"Tch. Cheeky brat." I thought I heard a faint hint of something akin to spleen but passed it off as a trick of the mind when he resumed to coo an evocative sigh into my ear. "You were staring at me yesterday." It wasn't a question. At this point I wasn't exactly surprised by his bluntness.

I decided to stand my ground. "And if I was?" I replied indignantly.

"It's a bit rude to stare at someone like that in a public place, don't you think?"

"Like what?"

A slight pause.

"It's rude to stare at someone like you want to fuck them."

Every fine hair on my body must have pricked up at those words and I felt a compromising and unnatural heat begin to pool in the apples of my cheeks. _How could he possibly think-? This guy is too fucking arrogant for his own good!_

I"I-I wasn't-! You- that's not!"

I could hear his fingertips drumming quietly on some hard surface in the background, slow and rhythmic like a metronome. He cleared his throat audibly and I instincually bit down on my lip as I pictured his adam's apple bobbing beneath the milky flesh of his throat."No need to get so defensive kitten, I only wanted to ask if you'd like to get coffee with me sometime."

I froze. "You mean... like a date?"

"Exactly like a date."

The beginnings of a malicious grin itched the corner of my mouth and I leaned up against my kitchen counter, pressing the phone closer to my ear. I had lost the capacity to question the validity of the whole situation, a provocative stranger I'd just so happened to be ogling suddenly deciding he'd like to get to know me better, a scenario any rational person might have treated more carefully. But I wasn't rational. The only thing I could think of in that moment was how fucking hungry his velvety colloquy was making me.

"Don't you think it's a bit tedious, asking a barrista out for coffee?" I teased, confidence winding its way way into my tone.

"Did you have something else in mind?"

"No." I interjected a little too quickly, passing off the cellphone to my opposite hand. "No, coffee's fine."

"Do you work tomorrow?"

"My shift ends at seven."

"Fine. I'll pick you up then."

The dull edges of my front teeth had pierced the skin of my lips, a warm metallic taste filling the space beneath my tongue. I licked it away in an impatient stripe.

"Sounds good. Don't be late, Levi."


	5. Clot

**Notes: I'm so sorry I don't even know where this is going. Feedback is appreciated as always!**

I couldn't sleep.

And it wasn't just one of those "_gee, sure wish I didn't have that coffee before bed" _bouts of caffeine-addled hypervigilance, the kind you might recover from after an hour or two of mid-budget crime dramas and honey stirred into warm milk. No, this was more of an "_I'm ten years old and can't wait to tear the wrapping off my Christmas presents"_ nerves-strung-taughtinsolmnolence.

And by "Christmas presents" I was, of course, referring to a certain overly sexy midget with an apparent fondness for stupid oxymoronic sweaters. Evidently "tear the wrapping" could be translated as a clumsy euphemism for "stabbing repeatedly in the throat."

Clearly I was never graced with even a smidgen of eloquence when it came to the English language.

With a thin sigh I allowed myself as much of a stretch as the cramped mattress situated in the corner of my even-more-cramped bedroom would allow, rather enjoying the dull popping and cracking that accompanied reaching my arms above my pillow in a half-assed flex. The thin sheen of sweat clinging to my skin felt wonderfully cool against the stale night-breeze filtering in through the tiny apartment window I'd been forced to pry open after somehow managing to tangle myself in my own bed sheets, inadvertently becoming trapped in an uncomfortably hot quilt-cocoon for a good 15 minutes. I'd eventually thrashed my way free but not before allowing a series of high-pitched yelps to be ripped from my throat so forcefully the downstairs neighbours felt the need to prod their ceiling with the plastic end of a broom when I'd unceremoniously driven the sensitive nodule of my elbow into the wall. The offending article now lay in a defeated lump on the floor, accompanied only by the crumpled night shirt I'd stripped off to celebrate my victory.

With the grainy dustings of insomnia progressively reddening my sclera, I trained my gaze on the gentle fluttering provided by the makeshift curtains framing my windowsill (they were really just old pillowcases I'd tacked to the wall), finding myself in an uncharacteristic state of capricious anxiety. After snapping my cellphone shut and dancing awkwardly around the kitchen with my toast in an admittedly childish display of utter satisfaction regarding the day's events, my mood had shifted from giddy recklessness to a nervous sort of reservation. Somewhere between purchasing an unnecessary amount of jam at the local grocer and escaping the sweaty blanket-coffin I'd come to the disconcerting realization that I had absolutely no idea how I was supposed to deal with this Levi guy.

And I don't mean _deal with _in the physical sense. Oh no, I've comprised an impressive mental check-list of all the lovely things I plan to do _to_ him. I'm talking about interacting with the guy. _Socializing._

To put it bluntly I wasn't used to being hit on so _openly_, and it honestly threw me for a bit of a loop. Although I'd come to the conclusion that I was doing a relatively satisfactory job at maintaining the cheery-and-slightly-flustered barrista act, Mikasa said I gave off a certain air of malevolence that ensured those around me kept themselves at arm's distance. When I scoffed at the notion she'd told me it was all in the eyes, that I had a tendency to fix others with the same predatory reconnaissance a cat might gift a mouse moments before devouring it whole. Naturally I'd told her to can it.

But this Levi. He was a whole other story. He, in fact, _did not _keep himself at arm's distance, a gesture that either disproved Mikasa's little theory or just rendered him a downright weirdo. No, he had basically sauntered right up into my little socially-awkward bubble without so much as a backwards glance. Granted that by the way he spoke to me in that velvet purr and by the fact he'd left his number to set up a date_ of all things_ after a whopping 2 minutes of broken conversation it was probably safe to assume he just found me cute or something and was trying to get into my pants. Not that his motives deterred me from my ultimate goal- provocatively straightforward or not, he _would _be mine. The whole process was moving along so quickly, however, I found myself pleading my restless id to take a step down from the momentary high his phone call had produced in order to mull the situation over with a clearer head. I had a very systematic way of going about my treatment of a target, a very step-by-step approach to ensure no sloppy mistakes were made but that dark-haired profligate was fucking up the order. Unconsciously messing with my system. The effect he had on me simultaneously pissed me off and sent paroxysmal surges of feverish excitement rattling along my bones- sweetening the prospect of slicing that coy little smirk right off his face to a syrupy confectionary.

_Fucking hell. Now I'm even more excited._

Groaning, I swung my legs over the side of my bed, bare soles resting atop the scraggly frieze carpet that decorated the majority of my unimpressive residence. It had originally been of a pearly grey colour flecked in synthetic amber fibres but I'd spilled tea and food on it so many times it was now peppered in faded stains of varying shades and sizes that I just couldn't be bothered to scrub out. Disgusting, I know, but I'm not exactly particular when it comes to cleanliness. Unless of course I'm scrubbing away the remnants of bloody-murder, but even then Mikasa still harps on me to do a more thorough job; _Eren pay attention to what you're doing, Eren don't coddle the body, Eren use more bleach, Eren stay out of the blood_. I huffed a short breath of annoyance at the thought. Nag.

Invisible puppet strings coiled around my limbs and slumped my spine, holding my body in a weak tripod-position and I had to blink a few times to allow my pupils a few generous moments to adjust to the dark. _Can't sleep, might as well make use of my time _I rationalized to no one in particular, weight shifting to my feet as I picked my way through the mess of sheets and clothing so neatly strewn about the floor. I didn't bother with any lighting along the way, over the years I'd become accustomed to maneuvering around in the shadows (_you _try luring someone into an alleyway and loading their corpse into Mikasa's Camaro in broad daylight) and flipping switches left and right only tacked unnecessary digits to my electricity bill; a metaphorical spit-in-the-face to the coffee-shop salary I relied on. I did, however, switch on the overhead lights bordering the kitchen, using the back of my hand to shield myself from the blinding fluorescence responsible for sending my eyeballs reeling back into their sockets and sprinkling fat droplets of black across my vision.

Insomnia and I went way back. If there was ever a time it didn't snuggle up beneath the fluff of my comforter and slip fishhooks through my eyelids to keep them from drooping, the memory was buried so deep in filth that it simply wasn't worth searching for- discarded amongst childhood ramblings and sweet-dreams still in their sugary packaging; all twist-ties and new plastic. No, painless repose would only cave in and claim me right after the Hunger had been satiated. Then and only then did the fishhooks slacken and Insomnia would creep up to kiss me with cold, dead lips on my cold, dead cheek as if to say "good job" before smothering me in my own bliss, rendering my consciousness (for all intents and purposes) deceased for a good 12-15 hours. It was between these fleshy, heated bouts of flash hibernation that I'd been forced to get creative in passing the time, finding it increasingly difficult to sit idly by while the dull tick of my bedside clock etched tallies along the inside of my skull. For the most part I'd resort to dragging my sorry ass to the kitchen with the intention of pampering my favorite toys, a gesture I was currently in the process of carrying out.

My gaze automatically fell to the small, unpretentious drawer situated innocently between the cutlery and the lazy suzan. I snorted a short breath of content before making a bee-line for it, mindlessly transferring its belongings to the tabletop in gesture I'd carried out so many countless times before it had become instinctual; muscle memory I didn't mind retaining. The sight sent the pink of my tongue travelling in a greedy swipe along my lower lip. What lay before me was a well-used knife roll crafted from black, burnished leather that was all bundled up into a neat little parcel by two polished silver buckles fixed on either side. It flaunted a thick handle embroidered with some decorative stitch-work but I didn't exactly trust the appendage, didn't trust its tensile strength, and so when I carried my knives the roll was almost always unwholesomely cradled between my arms like a fragile, leather-swaddled newborn rather than a briefcase carelessly swung from half-curled fingers. The pocked aluminum tin and Arkansas stone I used for sharpening were scattered haphazardly beside it- the former rolling slowly towards the edge of the table and clattering loudly to the floor before I had the chance to retrieve it. I paid the fallen item no heed in favour of lovingly running my fingertips along the length of the cool material atop my dining table before making to un-do its restraints and roll out the parcel so that its contents were on full display.

To describe it as anything less than adoration would be a flat-out lie because there was _nothing _I didn't adore aboutthe impressively diverse arrangement of deadly tools laid out before me; a macabre collection containing everything from gut-hook knives to skinning blades and butcher's cleavers. As my knowledge of basic anatomy metastasized with the years, my little array had blossomed from a paltry assortment of stolen kitchen knives to a deadly maw of glinting steel and leather-the wide, snapping jaws of some mechanical predator. The sheer variety of the set allowed me the freedom to exercise my creativity, a luxury I didn't come to fully appreciate until well into my late teens. Turns out it's a lot of fun; strangling someone from behind with a lengthy coil of razor wire gripped taught between the callous of thick leather gloves- chest to back, chin to shoulder. And although I didn't get the chance to_ use_ each and every instrument as often as I'd like, each piece was treasured and cared for all the same. My personal favorite was a sweeping belly fixed-blade hunting knife set in a simple cherry wood handle that Mikasa had given me for my 18th birthday; concealed within an unassuming little shoebox by layers of polka-dot tissue, the rough silk of a ridiculous red bow, and a multitude of tight ribbon curlicues peeking out from beneath the pressed folds of budget paper. The memory itched a faint smile to my lips. _Only Mikasa would dress up a murder weapon and act like committing a felony between bites of birthday cake was the most normal thing in the world. _That particular night had been too wonderfully strange for me to have filed the memory away in some forgotten cabinet.

We'd been seated cross-legged on the floor of my living room surrounded by empty pop cans and long-since discarded pizza boxes dotted in residual grease, the careless after-effects of a lengthy Grey's Anatomy marathon. The endings credits of a particularly dramatic episode were rolling across the cheap screen of my television when she'd scooted closer and quietly pushed the colourful little package into my hands, apologizing profusely and letting me know that it was all she could afford. I honestly hadn't even remembered it was my birthday, operating under the assumption that Mikasa's presence was simply due to a craving for pizza and re-runs, not some silly human celebration I could never bring myself to try and understand. But no, my assumption was "so freaking obviously" incorrect (her words, not mine) that to punish me for my apparent carelessness she'd smacked me smartly upside the head with the flat back of a paper plate before urging me to unwrap the parcel. The slight tinge of something akin to well-masked excitement lacing the edges her tone told me that she had put a lot of thought into whatever was inside and I complied with little hesitance. Evidently I'd been so pleased with the gift that despite my reservation towards displays of affection in the form of touch I'd pulled her into a big hug, chanting "thank you, thank you!" like a 5 year old with my arms locked in a vice around her waist. Allowing my situatory excitement to get ahead of me, Mikasa had helped me load up the necessary supplies into the back of her beat-up Camaro and we set off to pay a surprise visit to the target I'd been tailing for a good 4 or 5 weeks. His memory was easy enough to fish for- mid 40's, unmarried, living alone on the well-off side of town. Ordered the blonde roast with 2 sugars and a creamer every Monday he stopped by the café. All in all a fairly unassuming guy but he'd bled like a stuck pig when I slotted Mikasa's gift between his ribs, instantly falling in love with the way it cut through flesh like margarine and molded perfectly into my grip like a prosthetic extension of my arm. Ah. His screams had sounded so perfect from behind the muffle of Mikasa's palm as I prodded around his insides for a good half hour before exercising my generosity and slitting his throat. We had allowed ourselves the use of his rainforest shower, clothes and all, revelling in the luxury of hot water neither of us would have to pay for and the use of cheap bar-soap that smelled of lemons and didn't lather well. I remembered stopping by the 24-hour supermarket on our way back from dumping the body to pick up a birthday cake, "as was tradition," but Mikasa had accidentally purchased a carrot cake under the assumption that it was chocolate and as neither of us could stand the flavour we'd ended up scraping off all the cream-cheese icing with our fingers while the actual baking went untouched.

I was currently wriggling said blade from the supple leather of its sheath, taking care not to dirty its polished face with any fingerprints. Prying it free, I hummed in contentment and admired the way my reflection grew warped and distorted as I turned the tool from side to side to catch the light. I wasn't so blind that I couldn't appreciate the fact that twisted and blurred against the steel of a blade was the only place my soul was mirrored accurately. It was a welcome sight after having to avoid eye-contact with the green-eyed stranger inhabiting car windows and gutter puddles.

I'd already come to the (albeit reluctant) decision that I would not kill Levi during our first encounter. While I had never been some doe-eyed, bandy legged creature of caution, I certainly wasn't _stupid _and there was still so much I didn't know about him- his schedule, what he did for a living, where he lived… as badly as I wanted to jump his bones and tear his throat out the second we were alone I was well aware that the window of error was wide open as a result of the measly intel I had yet to collect on him. And although his stature screamed otherwise, something told me he wouldn't be an easy kill- I just couldn't quite put my finger what it was. Murderer's intuition, I suppose. I hated the notion of waiting, I mean I _really _hated it, but I knew it'd incredibly stupid to allow myself purchase across the bright yellow "caution" line painted in a fat stripe between where I was currently rooted and where I so desperately wanted to be. To the crimson side of the line with its metallic old-bones taste and sticky red drippings. But I wouldn't stray, I _couldn't _stray_. _I'd have to exercise self-control, be a big boy, and just be patient. Go on this "date" and learn as much as possible before even _thinking _about running Levi through the ribs with my favorite knife. Before this whole meeting thing had been arranged I might've chosen to tail him, melting back into the shadows in a state of not-so-innocent observation but seeing as he'd just outright _handed_ me such a perfect opportunity to get to know him better, it'd be simply rude not to grasp what was being shoved in my face. But that didn't mean I could just rush in like some headstrong moron_._ Succumbing to the hunger before the time was right would be… let's just say, _less than desirable_. It had gotten ahead of me only once before and in a hazy state of churning delirium I'd spontaneously killed some expensive looking prostitute minutes after laying eyes on her, deciding against my better judgement that I was so hungry one little kill couldn't hurt. Like a child sneaking sweets before dinner. Evidently she was so used to being groped by grubby fingers in the dark that she'd gotten in a good swipe and a curdling scream before I'd finally managed to shut her up and bash her skull in with the heel of my boot, clots of crimson mixing with sequins and bits of scalp. The whole ordeal didn't exactly fly under the radar and had forced me to utilize resources other than Mikasa to help cover my ass- a process that sure as hell wouldn't be repeated any time soon as the experience could only be described as unpleasant. Furthermore, I wanted to take my time with Levi. Plan out everything to the letter. Not a single damnable soul I'd ever encountered had been capable of instilling that kind of fire within me and I couldn't help but feel our meeting was due to the workings of some twisted fate. If I was ever capable of experiencing the frivolity of the human emotion named love I'd describe this infatuation as "love at first sight". I had to take every measure to ensure my time with him was perfect, that his body would be perfect once I was through with it. The situation was far too important for me to be getting ahead of myself and acting out of impatience. After Levi was dealt with, I was sure I'd be sleeping for days.

I wouldn't be satiated tonight. This meeting would simply serve as a teasing little preview for what was to come.

But that didn't mean I couldn't _prepare _for the main event.

In a deft gesture I leant out of my seat and groped about beneath the table to retrieve the fallen tin, coating my Arkansas stone in the oil of its contents as the faint scent of something similar to petroleum tickled my senses. I angled my blade appropriately and dragged it along the fine grit of the rock, producing a wonderfully familiar "shunk" sound. The tenseness present in my nerves and muscles relaxed accordingly, freeing my mind to dwell on more important matters.

Shunk.

_Maybe I should strangle Levi _I mused, dragging my blade back along the stone.

Shunk.

_No, that'd be far too clean. I want to paint him red. Perhaps I should bash his skull in instead?_

Shunk.

_Pull out his intestines? Gouge out his eyes?_

Shunk.

_Cut a smile across his throat?_

Shunk.

_Maybe._

Shunk.

_I wouldn't even have to decide on a blade, there's only one knife in my collection that's good enough for Levi_.

Shunk.

_It'd be a genuine smile too, not one of those nasty little smirks_.

Shunk.

_A smile that only I could see._

Shunk.

_Mine and mine alone._

Shunk.

_Just-_

Shunk.

_For-_

Shunk.

_Me._

-x-

I hadn't even noticed the sun progressively creeping its way over the horizon, filtered beams staining my kitchen red and sending outstretched shadow-fingers itching up the walls, until it was 7 AM and I'd spent the sleepless remainder of my night dicking around on WoW. The majority of my guild had turned in for the evening in favor of catching an hour's worth of shut-eye before school or whatever the fuck they had to do in the morning, leaving me all by my lonesome harass noobs outside Stormwind for a few wasteful hours. The realm was so sparsely populated at this hour of the morning, however, I'd become mind numbingly bored and had taken to flying around and dismissing my nether-drake in mid-air just to see how far I could fall without dying. _Goddamn, I need to get a life _my internal dialogue whined to no-one after I successfully smashed my last piece of viable armour. With a groan I gently shut my laptop and flexed the joints that stiff and sore from hunching over my keyboard for a better part of the night and made to fill the kettle for tea, lazily filing through my cupboards in a search of a familiar cracked mug. Tea was a morning necessity, regardless of the amount of sleep I'd gotten (or lack thereof). It didn't offer the boost of artificial energy that would have accompanied a straight shot of too-strong coffee, the kind that truckers drink in cheap diners along the side of the road, but regardless of the ungodly amount of creamer I stirred into the stuff it was far too bitter for me to try and force down. Not that I was preparing tea this particular morning for its caffeinated properties (Levi was doing a well-enough job at keeping me awake), I just genuinely enjoyed the raw taste of it. Ever since Armin had introduced me to the chai lattes he so passionately coveted I'd become a bit of tea-junkie and said beverage now required its very own cupboard to house the sheer amount of messily stacked cardboard boxes and tins whose paper labels curled up around the corners where the glue had worn off. I wouldn't deny the fact that I was kind of an impulse shopper and as a result it had come to be that I owned every obscure flavour all the way from chocolate pepper to gingerbread. Upon discovery of the infernal cupboard Mikasa has taken to calling my tea collection "hoarding" and had once made the grave mistake of trying to sneak some of the emptier tins to the trash after opening the cupboard in search of a drinking glass and instead being caught in an avalanche of colourful paper packets and cheap aluminum. I'd hissed at her and delivered the lecture on the repercussions of touching my things but I swear she still stuffs some of it into her purse when my back is turned.

2 cups of milk tea, a stack of toast, and an enjoyably skin-reddening shower later I was sifting through my wardrobe in search of something decent to wear to work, seeing as Levi would be picking me up directly after my shift and I likely wouldn't get a chance to change in-between. Now, normally I hold the opinion that any internal concerns regarding my general appearance can fuck off to greener pastures, but if looking nice was what it took to keep my newest target interested, so be it, I'd be willing to put the time in to getting all dolled up. Much to my dismay, however, the majority of my clothing consisted of old band shirts and ripped jeans (torn by circumstance, not that pre-ripped nonsense teenagers buy at Hot Topic) but after pawing through a particularly crumpled pile I'd settled on what I'd hoped to be a relatively presentable ensemble; zipping a black-and-white hoodie with fat stripes spanning the width over a grey V-neck and opting to pair it with (intact) dark-wash jeans and my signature Converse because that Jean kid had ruined my other pair of shoes. I'd even attempted to tame the disaster of chocolate locks with a wet comb but it was, of course, stubborn as ever and had settled for being pulled back into its usual messy ponytail. I carefully peeled back the thin bedsheet adorning my wardrobe mirror, pinning it accordingly so that the dusty glass revealed my body from the neck down and spun a 360 just to make sure I didn't have a dirty sock or something stuck to the back of my hoodie. As it turns out, I did, and after tossing it off to god-knows-where I rinsed my mouth with spearmint and locked the door on my way out.

Since I had a few hours to kill before my shift started I took to the streets, shielding myself from the harsh glare of the mid-morning sun as I made my way to the baker's opposite with the intention of picking up a second-breakfast of honey cruellers (yeah yeah, I have a thing for sweets, get over it) and if he wasn't a little shit when I showed up for work, I'd even save one for Armin. We almost always planned our shifts in tandem; it was an arrangement that ensured I didn't slack off on the job and allowed the both of us to be entertained by each other's company when the stream of customers panned down to a measly 2 or 3 trickling in every hour. Normally the prospect of spending another afternoon with my best friend would have lifted my spirits, but today was a special exception and I would have liked nothing more than to lock him up in the broom cupboard for the evening. _Sorry Armin, I've got a hot date with a dead man walking. Hope you understand. _

Disturbingly accurate jokes aside, I'd been violently racking my brains since Levi's phone call trying to come up with a viable plan that would allow me to sneak off with him before Armin's knowing gaze could fill in the blanks as to what I was up to, but so far I was drawing up nothing but air and it looked like the only plan of attack I'd been able conjure was to distract my friend with the promise of sweets before shoving the donut bag over his head and making a run for it. I felt my lips press into themselves at the thought. _I guess we'll just have to see. If I'm lucky, maybe he won't come in at all. _I briefly toyed with the idea of texting Levi with the request he wait outside but there really wasn't any rational explanation for such a proposition, at least none that I could think of, and so my cellphone remained bitterly untouched within the cradle of my pocket. I was munching on a crueller, the neatly-folded paper bag clutched in my free hand as I weaved my way through the crowded street when a news broadcast playing from the various television screens of a nearby electronics store caught my eye and slowed my lazy pace to a halt.

_Police have yet to release a statement…._

I cocked an eyebrow, licking the last remnants of honey glaze from my fingertips as I strained to listen to the far-too-blonde newslady over the rising chatter of passersby.

_Body discovered in the Shiganshina district late last night…._

The sentence instantly vacuumed all the moisture from throat, rendering my next swallow thick and congealed. Mikasa and I had lived in the Shiganshina district since we were 15. It was where I operated. A body was discovered?

Were they referring to one of mine?

A grainy polaroid of the victim popped up in the dead space beside the newslady and I let out a sigh of relief. The kid appeared to be little younger than I was, Caucasian and relatively plain looking with dark hair (brown, maybe?) and big, droopy puppy-dog eyes. The photo was too fuzzy for me to make out the fine details but the blurred outline of his features confirmed that whoever this poor bastard was, I'd certainly never laid a hand on him. Visibly annoyed, I wiped my sticky fingers on the back of my jeans and continued on my way, crushing the pliant material of the paper bag I held further into my fist as my once-decent mood clouded into something significantly more dark and irritable. Among the few who indulged in this particular brand of pleasure it was an unspoken rule that Shiganshina district was _my _turf (well, better known as "Mikasa's turf"), but now the police would be crawling all over the place on high alert because some idiot didn't dispose of his corpse properly. I'd been around the block enough times to know that whoever responsible for the dead kid debuting the local news was either an idiot, a newbie, or someone who was purposefully trying to draw attention to either themselves or the district for god knows what reason. Naturally I cared little for their motives; I was only concerned because the stunt was likely going to force me to delay the bloody little honeymoon I'd planned with Levi. The realization elicited an annoyed flex of the jaw and I automatically decided that I didn't like this mystery person. You don't just dangle a bloody hunk of lamb in front of a starving lion and expect to leave with all your limbs, or your throat for that matter.

-x-

My shift flew by in a meaningless blur; all clotted and muddled with a distinctive haze around the edges as a result of my brain having mentally checked out with the intention of fucking off to la-la-land minutes upon arrival. The resultant effect included thumbing out twenties instead of fives and allowing a saucer or two slip through my fingers, the distinct clink of porcelain chippings against hardwood blowing any attempts at masked normalcy out of the water when I was quickly rounded on by a simultaneously perturbed and concerned Armin. When he tried to question me, however, I'd simply waved him off and encouraged him to eat the damned donut I'd so generously provided, threatening to shove the pastry down his throat when the interrogation persisted. The shit-eating grin he proceeded to slap on over honest, genuine concern between bites of crueller told me that I shouldn't have saved him one at all. When the hour hand of the antique clocked perched above the doorway crept its way to the neatly painted 7 decorating its face, I was brought to the embarrassing realization that my worries had been for naught as I hadn't even considered the fact that there was no reason for Levi to come in for coffee when he'd be going out for said beverage with me later. That too, did not go unnoticed by Armin, who teased at the obvious furrow of my brow as I stuffed my apron into my cubby and grunted a bothered goodbye before pushing my way into the cool street, scanning its inhabitants with expectancy in my eyes.

He was leant up against the faded brick exterior of the café, one hand buried somewhere within the pocket of his jeans while the other nonchalantly flicked the spent butt of a cigarette to the pavement. I announced my presence with a quiet clear of the throat, noting with a hint of amusement the black pullover bunny-hug that looked like it belonged to someone a good head taller seeing as the hem came to rest just below the gentle curve of his hips. The garment had one of the kangaroo pockets stitched into the abdomen and I had to bite back a smirk at how blatantly it contraindicated the expression of utter indifference gracing his features. The whole ensemble right from the chunky lace-up sneakers to the cuddly pullover was amusing as much as it was disturbing and it served such a stark contrast to the predatory gaze and honeyed words that I found myself wanting to smash that porcelain exterior into sharp little pieces just to see what was inside. His pupils flicked over for a split second in silent acknowledgement of my presence as he produced a familiar-looking cardboard packet from the confines of his pocket, arching one thin eyebrow in a wordless question. After staring at the gesture a few seconds too long to be passed off as mere hesitance I realized he was offering me a cigarette (the same brand I just so happened to smoke) but in light of maintaining the virgin schoolgirl act I shook my head in polite refusal. It wasn't an approach I particularly enjoyed having to break out but I was observant enough to note that by the suggestive advances this guy was probably the type that liked control. I figured playing out the role of an innocent little puppy would be my best bet to getting closer to him and it was simple enough; faking flustered expressions and nervous blushes is a hell of a lot easier when the reactions are half-genuine. I'd be lying if I said he didn't make me a little anxious, but it was the good kind of anxious, the high-strung, anticipatory anxious. And the fact that he possessed the _ability _to make my anxious only made me want to break him all the more.

Levi only shrugged and plucked another for himself, crisping the end and speaking between lazy drags of menthol. "So, where to? If you were anyone else I'd suggest we stay here but you probably want to get away from work." I shoved my hands in my pockets, silently pleased that he had breached the topic before I had the chance. "Something like that." _I just don't want Armin to see us together._ His mouth twitched upwards at the corner in the faintest hint of a smirk I wasn't quite sure I understood before breathing smoke in my face and linking his free arm with mine.

"Alrighty then. I know a place that's fairly close, we can walk."

I felt my features crinkle into the beginnings of a frown, more out of confusion than displeasure, and idly wondered if dragging someone you barely knew around by the arm was normal behaviour. Regardless of my trepidation I decided to trust the fact that he likely possessed more refined social skills than I did and allowed him to pull me along the dimly-lit side street we occupied, struggling to match the pace he was setting as a result of his grip having yanked me down to match our heights. Once I'd managed to straighten up, the faint heat ghosting my arm made me painfully aware of just how close our bodies were and how tightly the crook of his elbow was curled around my own. If he were to glance over at that very moment, perhaps to comment on something mundane like the weather, he might scoff at the ruddiness of my cheeks if not for the blanket of dusk provided by the dying street lamps lining our path. We were in such a position that if I really wanted to, he was so tiny that I could probably swing my arm around and pin him against one of the buildings walling our route, allowing me the liberty of smashing his skull against the brick. Just what kind of morbid perfume would the fresh stench of blood and brain matter make when I mixed it with cigarette smoke? I tugged my arm away at the thought in a weak attempt to ward off the temptation, ignoring the questioning glance he shot my way.

_Patience._

We walked in silence for a few moments before rounding on a quaint little coffee shop, all sugary awnings and spindly patio chairs, settled between a convenience store and a record seller and I thanked Levi when he held the door open for me. Ducking inside, we were greeted by the low hum of small talk made over steam and pastry and I made to take my place in line but Levi just shook his head and steered me towards the booths opposite the counter, palm splayed between my shoulder blades.

"Go get us a place to sit, I'll order. What do you want?"

_Well aren't you just the gentleman._

I surveyed the handwritten menu tacked behind the counter for a few moments, index finger tapping thoughtfully against my chin. I didn't miss the impatient little huff breathed behind me.

"Mmm I want a chai- no, I'll have a London Fog. And I want latte art in the shape of a leaf."

His gaze narrowed and for a few moments he fixed me with a look that told me he was trying to figure out if I was being serious or not but I stood my ground, folding my arms across my chest because there was really no reason to joke about latte art. He only sighed and gave a half shrug before waving me away.

"Fine, fine, just go get a damn table."

I complied, settling on one of the smaller booths situated along the garishly-wallpapered far wall. The shop was rather stuffy and thick with the scent of coffee and fresh pastry so I peeled off my hoodie, draping it across my lap and training my gaze on Levi's back as he waited in line. I had to bite my lip to stifle the giggle threatening to escape from my throat at the sight of him tapping his foot irritably against the tile, arms crossed in a perturbed little gesture that told me he wasn't exactly a waiting man. Good to know.

It was only a few minutes before Levi returned with our drinks, my own adorned with the promised leaf-art and what appeared to be a plain black coffee for himself. He settled down across from me, folding his hands neatly beneath his chin and casually nodded towards my exposed arms.

"What are those?"

I was in the middle of attempting to blow away the thin curls of steam rising from my beverage after taking hasty sip and searing the tip of my tongue. The sudden question surprised me a little and I furrowed my brows, genuinely unsure of what he was referring to. I peeked up at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Those bruises."

Ah. A quick glance at my forearms confirmed purpling splotches of crimson seeping from mashed capillaries in a scattered ring circling my right elbow, sunset stones crowning gooseflesh. The sight prompted me to hastily shove the appendage from its lazy perch atop the café table into the safety of my lap, shielding the marks from the bemused gaze boring into my own from across the table. Hiding behind the mask of a blushing teenager or not, the source of the bruises was still embarrassing.

"Oh. Ah- I'm not too sure." I lied through caged teeth.

"You're not some sort of masochist, are you?" The teasing edge of his words was fairly obvious but it pricked the hair on the back of my neck all the same. I wove a deliberate stutter into an otherwise truthful statement.

"N-no I am not a masochist!"

"Explain."

"It's none of your business."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Come on."

"No!"

"Eren."

"Absolutely n-"

The last half of my statement fell away at the sudden shift in is expression, mouth pressed into a hard little line as thin eyebrows with barely any arch to them came rest just superior to narrow slits of frozen steel. For a moment I thought the cool glare was being directed at me, and I was working my jaw open to apologize when my eyes locked on a semi-familiar figure slowly making its way to our table. I felt my features harden to granite.

Choppy blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun, trademark white hoodie with its too-short tassels, large chips of ice peering out from beneath a heavy-lidded half gaze. I'd only had the displeasure of "working" with her once or twice before, some acquaintance of Mikasa's who had inside connections and specialized in smoothing things over with the law. Needless to say we hadn't exactly hit it off.

Annie stopped short of where we sat, allowing her gaze to travel from Levi to me and back again, parting her lips in a statement that caught me way off guard.

"What are you two doing here?"


End file.
